


too much of this

by geode



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, author didnt even bother to look up what day of the week masterchef is aired, i didnt finish this so much as throw my laptop repeatedly at my bed and this happened, its crangst again lads srry, pie metaphors, the library as a coping mechanism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 15:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12345105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geode/pseuds/geode
Summary: "A to do list is meant to solve everything.""Not love, my friend."or: The Week of Realising Things.





	too much of this

**Author's Note:**

> i watched ros & guil are dead yesterday and while this prompted me to finish this, i feel i will never be able to write ros the same again, for better or for worse
> 
> anyway here is my attempt at making the hamratio tag a little less heartbreaking :^)

**Sunday**

 

 

"I have gathered you here today to discuss something very important," Hamlet says as sincerely as he can, because even in this time of actually needing to be goddamn serious he is totally aware of how weird he's being and somewhere in the meta part of his mind he is laughing at himself.

 

 

"Is it Horatio?" Guilly asks.

 

 

Hamlet jerks back in his chair and stares at him. Guilly just looks back expectantly and shakes the Pringle tube into his palm until more crisps appear. "What? How did you—? No! Why would it be?"

 

 

"If it wasn't about him, he'd be here," Guilly points out, and beside him Ros nods along to his logic.

 

 

Hamlet blinks, and then deflates. "Okay, it is," he concedes, but grinds to a halt after that. How do people even do this?

 

 

"If you pull an 'Oh, nevermind' on us there _will_ be blood," Ros says coolly, which makes Hamlet grin despite himself because he will never be over Ros' deadpan.

 

 

"I'm getting to it, Jesus, hang on!"

 

 

He stands up and paces to expel some of the buzzing energy in his veins. Guilly starts unabashedly peering around for the TV remote, so Hamlet makes the quick decision to strike before he's lost to the world and of no help to anyone, specifically: Hamlet.

 

 

"Right, so there's this problem I have concerning our dear friend Horatio, and it's kind of the opposite of having a problem with him, and that's the problem."

 

 

He lets the rapid-fire string of words hang in the air, watching his friends' faces in order to gage when they get it.

 

 

They do not.

 

 

"Wat?" Ros inquires.

 

 

"I can literally not find a single fault in Horatio," he tries again.

 

 

"He walked into a pillar the other day," Guilly supplies, but Ros shushes him with an arm-flap and a: "So it's a jealously thing?"

 

 

"Nooo, no, not... jealousy."

 

 

More silence.

 

 

Why does he have such dense friends?

 

 

"I may or may not want to dinner-and-a-movie him," he expands, a little desperate at this point.

 

 

"You already do," Guilly points out.

 

 

" _Oh_ ," Ros inhales sharply. "Oh my God."

 

 

"Yeah," Hamlet agrees, grateful Ros has at least one braincell.

 

 

Guilly looks between them, slightly more invested in the conversation now the Pringles have run out. He evidently rewinds what's just been said, opens his mouth to ask something, but then violently claps his hand to it and makes a hilarious squeaking sound.

 

 

"Yeah," Hamlet agrees.

 

 

**Monday**

 

On Monday morning, Horatio greets him with a smile that makes his glasses fall down his nose a bit, and Hamlet feels a sudden surge of guilt at having to be so underhand yesterday, because here it comes.

 

 

"Hey," he says brightly, lowering his book. "How was your weekend?"

 

 

"It was— good," Hamlet settles for. "Didn't— do much."

 

 

Obviously, this shite display arouses suspicion, and Horatio raises his eyebrows, but luckily seems more amused than anything else. "Sure," he says easily.

 

 

"How was yours?" Hamlet deflects, sliding into the seat opposite Horatio and physically feeling himself lose all notion of caring about anything apart from what Horatio is going to say. He doesn't quite rest his chin in his palm and sigh but it's near thing.

 

 

Ros materialises after a few minutes and breaks the spell, and now that she knows what's going on Hamlet can't help but resent her for it. "Hey, man," she directs at Horatio; she doesn't deign Hamlet with words, just a back-slap as she climbs into the space next to him as ungracefully as ever. "Did you watch Masterchef?"

 

 

"Of course I did," Horatio dismisses, and Hamlet is constantly amazed at his ability to seamlessly weave through different conversational threads. When they first met he couldn't get his head around how someone so quiet was so at ease talking to people. "Honestly, I'm still reeling from the fact they got rid of Andy."

 

 

"Holy shit, I know! Just 'cause Marie accidentally made something good this week: it's— it's—“

 

 

"It's a disgrace to TV, is what it is," Horatio says viciously; he’s getting into it now, in a second he’s gonna bring out the hands. Hamlet rolls his eyes with little to no to decimal malice, and Ros makes a face at him. Horatio looks between them.

 

 

Ros explains in the same tone as Hamlet's art teacher after the Incident with the clay: "Hammy remains as treacherous as ever, you'll find. He called Marie's pie, and this is a direct quote, 'exquisite'."

 

 

"We're all in agreement that it was a good pie, I just don't think she deserved to beat Andy because of it," Horatio says, smooth as always, but he's looking at Hamlet a little more intensely than a second ago.

 

 

_Is this how it ends?_ Hamlet thinks. All this time and then he ends up hating me over a chicken pie. As much as the idea pains him, its possibility as a thing that could actually happen makes him embarrassingly happy because only Horatio, oh boy.

 

 

Outwardly, he shrugs. "Andy's been shedding his culinary talent as the weeks have gone by," he counters. Truth be told he doesn't really care, but he would listen to Horatio reciting the shipping forecast at this point, so rundowns of cooking shows are practically enthralling in comparison. _God_ , he's sickening.

 

 

"Objection!" Ros yells, and shoves him in a fit of passion. "You just haven't been paying attention for most of the series; you only paid attention last night 'cause Guil took your phone hostage!"

 

 

They both realise at the same time. Horatio, apparently, had already guessed. His shoulders tighten as he picks up his book again, but Hamlet can tell he's trying not to show he feels slighted.

 

 

Ros lets go of Hamlet's arm and says, "Uh.”

 

 

"Is that all it takes?" Horatio muses as if nothing had happened. He doesn't look up from the page.

 

 

"If you can pry it out of my cold, dead fingers, yes," Hamlet tries valiantly to continue. He wants to follow up with something but he can't think of a single thing. _'Sorry, couldn't invite you round to discuss you yesterday'?_

 

 

"It's a two man job, I should warn you," Ros adds, also valiantly, even though it's her fucking fault in the first place and no redemption should come her way, and anyway that just made it _worse_.

 

 

The atmosphere is significantly more tense than ten seconds before. Hamlet swallows and attempts to biologically halt his face turning red. (Spoiler alert: he fails.) He wants to say something else, anything to make Horatio look at him again, but actually bringing up what they’re all thinking feels like breaking a social code.

 

 

The bell for registration sounds, and Horatio is up and halfway to the door before Ros has even finished saying his name.

 

 

“Well, thanks for that,” Hamlet says. They watch his retreating figure and stew in shame.

 

 

“Look on bright side,” Ros replies. “At least he’s probably forgotten about Marie.”

 

 

-

 

 

By Maths, Hamlet has thought of something.

 

 

He sweeps into his seat and swings his messenger bag onto the desk in a grand move he has perfected after four years. "So I was wondering yesterday, while Ros was finishing the illustrations on _our Geography assignment_ ," he pauses to look at Horatio pointedly. Horatio looks back, the tips of his ears reddening. "...about how oxbow lakes are the Beyonce of geographical phenomena."

 

 

"What?" Horatio says.

 

 

Okay, admittedly it's a rather tenuous statement to have started a conversation about, but he'd got the important thing conveyed.

 

 

"Don't you think?" Hamlet asks as he gets out his pencil case and starts sharpening a pencil in attempt at a power move with meagre resources at hand.

 

 

Horatio makes a face. "Well, no. Maybe Kylie, or Cat Stevens."

 

 

Hamlet is, reasonably, taken aback by the way this is going. "How are Kylie and Cat Stevens in the same category in your mind?"

 

 

"How is any type of lake the Beyonce in yours?"

 

 

"I love lakes," Hamlet supplies feebly.

 

 

"Good for you," Horatio says. Then he coughs. "Look, I'm. Sorry, about earlier."

 

 

Hamlet realises his mistake, as usual, only in retrospect. "No, no! What are you even sorry for? I'm sorry."

 

 

"For... not making me do your Geography homework?"

 

 

"For. Taking Geography in the first place," Hamlet saves, and grins hopefully; Horatio smiles back, so it's all good. "Anyway, it was astonishingly dull without you, don't worry. Black my world when you're not there and all."

 

 

"Don't soften me up with Les Mis," Horatio protests, but he's softened.

 

 

-

 

 

Fittingly enough, the next period is bloody Geography.

 

 

As per, Hamlet is sent to stand in the corridor within the first ten minutes, and puts his time to good use.

 

 

 

> _Amazing fail-safe plan to make ur favourite nerd fall in disgusting love with u:_

> _1) make sure he's not already in love with someone (awk)_
> 
> _2) make sure he actually likes guys??? like im pretty sure but not sure sure_
> 
> _3) initiate physical contact, gage reaction_
> 
> _4) dress nice aka not in hoodie :(_
> 
> _5) do a Thing, like a party or movie night and be datey_
> 
> _6)????? profit_

 

 

"This is the stupidest plan I've ever seen," Ros tells him. "I can't believe you have to ban yourself from wearing your hoodie."

 

 

"Correct me if I'm wrong-" Guil starts.

 

 

"Correction," they both say automatically, because Guil is always wrong.

 

 

"-but it looks like it boils down to you groping him."

 

 

Hamlet begins to protest, but can't really, much to his own horror.

 

 

"That's a point, man," Ros agrees. "Maybe don't sexually harrass your victim."

 

 

"Don't call him my victim," Hamlet mumbles.

 

 

Guilly sighs and pats his arm. "Poor Horatio."

 

 

-

 

 

_u busE l8r?_

 

 

**Why do you insist on texting like a seventy year old? It must take double the time to type.**

 

 

_its encryptN my frNd, it requires transl8ion Byond the skills of anE computR_

 

 

**No.**

 

 

_no u r busE?_

 

 

**No, your text talk is sickening but also sickeningly easy to read.**

 

 

_come ovR n watch kill ur dRlings w me_

 

 

**Is that the Allen Ginsberg movie?**

 

 

_yes!! n its a sin u havent Cn it B4_

 

 

**Cn?**

 

 

_seen_

 

 

**Doesn't work.**

 

 

_encryptN_

 

 

-

 

 

"I have a date!"

 

 

"That was quick," Ros leans back in surprised awe. Hamlet basks in this for point two of a second because it's not like he could ever get this response from her normally.

 

 

"Well, he doesn't know it's a date."

 

 

"Ah," Ros leans forward again and returns her attentions to her colouring. "Knew you weren't that good."

 

 

"Are you gonna call every interaction with him a date now?" Guilly asks. "Oh man, does this mean every time we hang out it's gonna be third wheeling?"

 

 

"You better not make this weird, Ham," Ros says, raising her eyes to meet his.

 

 

He pouts. "Such faith in me."

 

 

"Would you have faith in you?"

 

 

"Rude, but alright, my history with these things isn't exactly... reassuring."

 

 

Guil had long since lost interest, and thus provides the next tangential topic of conversation exactly on time, as Hamlet doesn't want to be left thinking about all his mistakes ever, thank you very much.

 

 

"Hey, which stage of the water cycle do you think we'd all be?"

 

 

-

 

 

It really is a great movie.

 

 

Just the right side of pretentious, vintage, murderous, very gay. Hamlet has no idea why he hadn't shown it to Horatio before, but he's glad he didn't now because he's utilising its powers.

 

 

He's decided to mess with the order of his amazing plan because ain't nobody got time, and also he's ignoring Step 3 entirely for now until he can figure out how to not be weird. (This may take a while.)

 

 

So first up is Step 2. Again, a little iffy because he didn't want to, like, out him, but he kind of needed to know?

 

 

(It's kinda odd because as a group they've just never talked about romantical feelings really. The most commentary on his love life he's got was Guil raising his eyebrows when Ophelia tried to grab his hand one day, followed by the conversation: "You guys dating then?" "I guess."

 

 

They've known each other all their lives, but despite this - or maybe because of it - they just... don't talk about that stuff. Denial perhaps; they were on the brink of adulthood as it was - girlfriends and boyfriends seemed like they'd be the blow that finally did it. Divided them, to a three to a two to a one. They'd been holding onto childhood longer than their allocated years, honestly.

 

 

Hamlet wanted to stay like this forever. If he hadn't opened his fat mouth, they might have.)

 

 

They walk home from school together and hunker down in what Hamlet affectionately calls his inception den, because it's his den within the lion's den that is his house. No one else calls it the inception den.

 

 

Fifteen minutes into the movie he starts peppering in comments, mostly about how Daniel Radcliffe acted infatuation.

 

 

"It's a neat concept, 'cause up to a point this is just how bros act with each other but to him it's an indication of requited love, y'know?"

 

 

"Mm," Horatio replies, watching.

 

 

"Like at what point does it become obvious what everyone's feelings are?"

 

 

"Mmhm."

 

 

"And if he's so sure of it I don't know why he spends the whole movie working up to making a move. I'd do it as soon as I knew, or thought I knew."

 

 

On-screen, Dan struggles with his academic workload and Horatio finally looks away and seems to backtrack.

 

 

"Wait, what? This isn't how bros act at all."

 

 

"It... isn't?"

 

 

"Nope," Horatio says, raising his eyebrows at Hamlet like, _Ya got issues_. "I think Lucien knows anyway. I think he enjoys the attention."

 

 

"So... he's going along with it even though he doesn't feel the same way?"

 

 

"I reckon, yeah."

 

 

Well, shit. That didn't bode well.

 

 

"And to your point about working up to something - I think, I think the more it matters to you the more uncertain you are, right? So you could be ninety nine percent sure but when the stakes are that high it's still not enough to inspire confidence."

 

 

Hamlet looks back at the TV. He swallows. "You've thought about this."

 

 

In his peripheral, Horatio shrugs.

 

 

This is the juicy sort of territory he'd been trying to get them to, but now he's here he kind of doesn't want to know what that shrug means. That's why he skipped Step 1, right? He hasn't thought about what he'd do if Horatio turned out to like someone else.

 

 

_How did we get here? We're meant to be talking about how gay this is!_

 

 

"Who's hotter, Dan or Dane?" he blurts desperately.

 

 

Horatio snorts, either at the strange segue or how stupidly similar the names are. He considers it though: "I always think of Dan as Harry, as in the eleven year old kid, so I guess Dane."

 

 

Such passion. Ah well, he tried. "See, I'd have to go with Dan because you can't bang someone with your name. Imagine if we got married - he'd be Dane Dane! What the fuck is that?"

 

 

Horatio laughs, but it's a little off, and Hamlet realises he'd changed the conversation from pure aesthetics to who he would devote his life to. That's a right bit of association.

 

 

In his head Ros whispers, _Don't make it weird, you fuck!_

 

 

It's weird, and Hamlet mouths swear words to himself until the sex dream part, at which point he ends up having a coughing fit and ruining any chance he may have had of subtly observing how Horatio reacted to it.

 

 

"You okay?" Horatio asks.

 

 

"I'm- not a ho- mophobe," he blurts through his coughing. "Just- asthmatic."

 

 

Horatio stares at him. "Didn't think you were, mate."

 

 

_Bollocks_. He hasn't been called 'mate' for ages. That's regression, surely.

 

 

He scuttles off to dig out his inhaler and chalks it all up to a big fucking disaster.

 

 

-

 

 

"So in conclusion, it was inconclusive," he tells Ros on the phone later that night. "Also, I'm going to die alone."

 

 

"We knew that before," she dismisses of the latter point. "Look, maybe just ignore step whatever-that-one-was for now too. You'll find out when you've gone through with it all anyway."

 

 

"S'pose," Hamlet sighs. "It's just strange that I don't know, right? Like, we've known each other years and I have no idea what his deal is."

 

 

"Ahh, the plight of the emotionally stunted."

 

 

"Fuck off."

 

 

"I can't think why he'd deliberately hide it from you, not that it's your business remember. Maybe he hasn't figured it out yet."

 

 

"Ugh, I hate this," he groans, flopping onto his bed dramatically. "I thought my life would be so very different."

 

 

**Tuesday**

 

 

After some consideration, Hamlet decides the safest bet would be to do Step 4. Trouble is, he is completely incapable of it.

 

 

He caves after twenty two minutes and an almost-breakdown in front of his wardrobe, and Snapchats Ophelia a picture of what he's wearing with the caption, _out of ten?? (srsly)_

 

 

She replies instantly with a selfie of her own disgusted face. _-6_

 

 

That's about what he thought. He takes a picture of his five favourite shirts, which he'd laid out on his duvet to stare at mournfully. _pls help me im on a mission_

 

 

The good thing about Phe is that even when she hates his guts, as she does once every few months for reasons unfathomable to Hamlet, she can always be relied upon for fashion advice because she can't bring herself to wish an ugly outfit on her worst enemy (which is Hamlet, once every few months).

 

 

Minutes go by and he starts to think he'll have to call in sick and just not go to school and possibly go live in a forest, but then she replies in a Facebook message.

 

 

_The dark green collared one with that grey cardigan if you still have it; your NICE jeans; anything but Converse; pls do something to your hair it's appalling._

 

 

He expels the breath he'd been holding in profound relief. He's so useless at clothes it's a wonder he hasn't been cast out if society yet.

 

 

He gets dressed, and after stalling he sticks a bottle of gel in his bag because he doesn't trust himself to be at all successful in that endeavour. In the mirror on the way out he grins because he does look pretty good - even if just because his standards are so low that wearing a different hoodie to normal counts as effort.

 

 

Guilly does a double-take when he sees him.

 

 

"My God," he stage whispers. "I'm - whatsit? - agog, aghast-"

 

 

"Alright, alright, I get it - I'm a disgrace to the human race normally. But it's good, right?" He twirls on one heel and ends with jazz hands.

 

 

Guil applauds, grinning. "Yeah, you look hot, dude! Well, more adorable than hot, but it's good. It can't have been your idea."

 

 

Hamlet sits down next to him and starts rummaging in his bag. "Nah, Phe's." He finds the gel and holds it out to Guil reverently. "Now, good sir, care to aid a poor soul?"

 

 

-

 

 

"Holy balls!" Ros shouts when she descends upon them. "Who is this, Guilly? Who the fuck is this?"

 

 

"You like it?" Hamlet grins.

 

 

"It's a shame you're so insistent to reach your endgame - you could totally do with dressing better for more than a week."

 

 

"Thanks?"

 

 

"Where _is_ the date in question, anyway?" Guil asks the world at large. It doesn't offer up an answer, and Hamlet just shrugs.

 

 

"Maybe he walked into another pillar," he suggests.

 

 

It turns out he's just plain old late, which is a more common occurrence than you'd expect from such a nerd, but there it is. He appears halfway through English, visibly sweating, and babbling about his dad making him find the cat and the cat being two doors down on the roof of a conservatory. The teacher waves it off because he loves Horatio - as all teachers do, instantly and eternally - and goes back to _An Inspector Calls._

 

 

Hamlet smiles as winningly as he can at him as he comes over, but something must go terribly wrong with it because as soon as Horatio sees him he averts his eyes and almost hits him in the face with his rucksack in his haste to sit down.

 

 

For the whole lesson, Hamlet tries to engage him in their usual bantery shenanigans but Horatio stoically avoids his eyes. He spends the majority of it red in the face too, obviously embrassed by his late entry and the state he's in. Eventually Hamlet retreats and doodles the rest of the lesson away, trying to think of a non-creepy way to reassure him he's still cute when he's a mess.

 

 

-

 

 

"He's being weird today, right?" he hisses to Ros and Guilly when the cute mess in question goes off to get a spoon from the canteen for his yoghurt.

 

 

"Is he?" Guil hisses back.

 

 

"Little bit," Ros says.

 

 

"Well, then he must always be weird because I can't tell."

 

 

"This is true."

 

 

"I might be being paranoid-"

 

 

"You are," they chant back.

 

 

"-but I think he's only being weird at me."

 

 

They ponder this.

 

 

"Does this mean it worked or failed?" Ros asks.

 

 

"In what way would this show it worked?"

 

 

"Well, imagine if he'd come into school looking like a twelve when you were feeling like a five."

 

 

"So, everyday then."

 

 

"'Ite, but the difference here is that his awkwardness actually looks like awkwardness, whereas yours just makes you more obnoxious."

 

 

This is a nice observation, and Hamlet makes a mental note to praise her on it later, but right now he's trying to get his head around what her point is.

 

 

"So... you think it might've...?"

 

 

Guilly nods overenthusiastially like the Churchill dog circa 2010; Ros raises an eyebrow, which is her version of Churchill.

 

 

Hamlet feels his face warming up. "God, I hope you're right. I mean, it's that or he's finally found out something awful about me and wants to move to Canada."

 

 

Guil scrunches up his face. "Why Canada? Isn't the English version moving to France? Or... Scotland?"

 

 

"He loves Canada, though."

 

 

"Who loves Canada?" Horatio asks, appearing by the table and sitting down, spoon in hand.

 

 

"Uh," Hamlet replies smoothly.

 

 

"The NHL?" Ros suggests.

 

 

Horatio nods and rips the lid off his yoghurt. He doesn't look at Hamlet, but he doesn't, like, flinch when he speaks which for today is progress.

 

 

Hamlet tries not to look at him either, and spends the rest of lunch trying to digest the idea that he has the power to be Attractive™ to him in any capacity. It's not like he doesn't know he's got good bone structure or whatever. It's just that there's never been an overlap between those who find him hot and those he's friends with: until now apparently.

 

 

-

 

 

Ophelia pounces on him at 3.01pm. He opens the door to the French block and she's suddenly just there, and Hamlet almost gives himself a brain injury himself on the door-frame.

 

 

"Christ! Don't do that," he hisses, batting her to move so he can get through. She just smiles sweetly and starts following him as he makes his way through the hordes of simultaneously hyperactive and weary students.

 

 

"You didn't really think you could ask me for fashion advice and then get away with not telling me why, did you?" she says; she slips her arm through Hamlet's so she could keep up with his fast pace by way of a skateboarder holding onto the back of a truck. Hamlet barely registers this, used to it as he is.

 

 

"To my shame, I did for a minute. Wh- Are you _skipping_?"

 

 

She doesn't answer, just grips his arm harder so he paid attention to her. "Are you having another breakdown? Is it a midlife crisis?"

 

 

"I'm seventeen!"

 

 

"If anyone's gonna die tragically young in a stupid way, it's you, Dane."

 

 

"Thanks. But no, I'm not having a breakdown."

 

 

He doesn't offer anything else, trying to postpone the humiliation.

 

 

"C'mon," Ophelia pleads. "I could help some more! Or was it a 24-hour only thing? Oh my God, please tell me you did something embarrassing!"

 

 

They pass through the school gates and Hamlet reluctantly steers them towards Ophelia's house. With any luck they'll run into Laertes and he can foist Phe off on him and make a run for it.

 

 

"Not yet," he answers.

 

 

Ophelia stops in her tracks and spins him to face her. "You're trying to seduce someone."

 

 

"Before you get the wrong idea, it's not you."

 

 

"Good. Is it Ros?"

 

 

Hamlet is so horrified he forgets himself and replies, "Christ, you're so heteronormative!"

 

 

"So it _is_ Horatio!" Phe yells delightedly. "I fucking knew it."

 

 

"What?" Hamlet splutters.

 

 

"Well, did it work? You can thank me entirely for the hair thing."

 

 

Hamlet spares a moment to curse every god he's ever heard of before giving up and starting to trudge on through the park. Phe takes his arm again and tugs it so he'll answer.

 

 

"No, okay, it didn't work. He barely talked to me today."

 

 

"...How does that count as not working? He was obviously restraining himself."

 

 

"Yeah, obviously."

 

 

"I mean, he could've always just figured out one of your horrible personality traits."

 

 

Hamlet shoves her and she giggles.

 

 

Then he has a... probably not so bright idea.

 

 

"Hey, you don't... happen to know..."

 

 

"If he likes guys?"

 

 

Hamlet glares at her, but nods.

 

 

"Yeah, I know," she said sweetly. And then nothing. "What? It's not my info to tell."

 

 

"I hate you," Hamlet announces, and when they get to her house he drinks the last of her chocolate milk to reinforce this.

 

 

-

 

 

_you okay?_

 

 

**Forgoing the encryption, I see.**

 

 

_deflecting the question I see_

 

 

**Yeah, I'm okay, why'd you ask?**

 

 

_you were weird all day dude don't gimme that_

 

 

**Maybe. Sorry. Strange day.**

 

 

_wanna talk about it?_

 

 

**Not really.**

 

 

_wanna categorise it?_

 

 

**????**

 

 

_school problem, home problem, love problem, existential crisis problem?_

 

 

**You'll make fun of me.**

 

 

_i won't h :(_

 

 

**Self hatred problem.**

 

 

_!!!!!!!!_

 

 

**Don't.**

 

 

_you're the best person I know wtf_

 

 

**Don't do this, man.**

 

 

_ily i can't believe you don't_

 

 

_h?_

 

 

_sorry i'll stop_

_don't ghost me you shit_

_:((((_

 

 

**Wednesday**

 

 

After the shitshow of yesterday Hamlet isn't really sure how to proceed. He'd only managed two steps, one of which had resulted in nothing and the other if which had failed, and he could see no way to complete the other steps without coming across as a serial killer, which wasn't a good look for potential boyfriends.

 

 

He heads to school subdued, back in his hoodie of shame, and Guil offers him half his cereal bar in an act of great selflessness that only such melancholy can bring forth. It just depresses him further.

 

 

"Just scrap the plan," Ros shrugs. "It doesn't matter."

 

 

"It matters to me," Hamlet says indignantly, although saying it aloud he realises it actually doesn't, at all. Who gives a shit about the plan? He just wants Horatio to be happy. That's what matters. "I thought I could do it. A to do list is meant to solve everything."

 

 

"Not love, my friend," Ros pats him on the back in consolation.

 

 

Horatio appears a few minutes later, also noticeably subdued.

 

 

"What happened to you guys?" Guil asks tactically and untactfully.

 

 

"Bad day," Horatio answers.

 

 

"It's eight thirty in the morning."

 

 

"Yesterday."

 

 

"Ah."

 

 

"Anything we can do to help, man?" Ros offers.

 

 

Horatio's eyes flicker to meet Hamlet's for a split second. "Nah. It's okay. Can we just forget it?"

 

 

"It's forgotten," she insists without missing a beat. "You know, we never got around to assigning you a stage of the water cycle, but I didn't bring up because I think we're all in agreement that you're precipitation."

 

 

-

 

 

Everything's better by lunch, but Hamlet can't help but feel like it's all been rewound and he's further away than ever from his goal. There's another dynamic added to it too now, because Ros and Guilly know. Hamlet doesn't like them keeping secrets from each other: they can not talk about things, but they can't half-talk about things. It isn't sustainable, and he knows something will come of it soon, be it the total return of square one or... something else, something good or something terrible.

 

 

Fuck knows what Horatio thinks is going on. Maybe that Hamlet's having a breakdown? Maybe he is. Maybe he should just leave the country and become a monk. Although don't monks give advice? He's in no position to do that. Damn, even his last resort is no good.

 

 

-

 

 

Guil is by all definitions the wildcard of the group. You'd think upon first meeting him that he was just a pleasant kid, good for going bowling or reassuring your parents your friends weren't the type to get you into hard drugs. This is all true, but there's also his other side which can be held accountable for most of their most outrageously unsuccessful schemes, and the fact that the three of them (not Horatio, obviously, who comes with a character inherent get out of jail free card) are banned from using the food tech ovens until sixth form.

 

 

Hamlet can't for the life of him tell which side is the one that tells Horatio Hamlet's having a party on Friday.

 

 

"You are?" he asks Hamlet, somewhat taken aback; whenever there's a party on the horizon it's normally planned at least a month in advance so everything is coordinated perfectly for maximum shitfacing.

 

 

"Uh, yep," he nods. "I... only just decided. Literally."

 

 

Horatio nods back and Ros rolls her eyes at them just nodding away at each other, but takes a bite of sandwich instead of commentating, so that's something.

 

 

"Cool," Horatio says once it becomes clear there'll be no end to this otherwise. "Who's coming?"

 

 

"Oh... everyone," Hamlet says vaguely. He glances pleadingly at Guil, who just eats and leaves him hanging. _Dick._ "I'm living spontaneously."

 

 

"Good for you," Horatio says, not even sarcastically, just like he's sort of curious. He considers Hamlet as he chews a segment of orange. This whole thing has spun Hamlet off his groove and the mere hint of normalcy and attention in his reply makes him blush, which is fucking ridiculous in anyone's book.

 

 

Why was Guil implementing Step 5 of a plan they had scrapped because it had failed at every other point? Probably the free beer. It's not like he had to do anything at this party now anyway, except keep Ros from drunkenly describing in excruciating detail how much Hamlet loves Horatio's dimples. All he could do now is procrastinate him finding out. It had been three days, and he hadn't even done anything, but he's managed to ruin his own life anyway.

 

 

-

 

 

He manages to rustle up a pretty good guest list for Friday by the time he's released at 4pm. For all that they're social outcasts they have a good reputation for hosting at least.

 

 

At this point, Hamlet's slightly desperate. He and Horatio don't really talk for the rest of the day, which Ros tries to mend by suggesting they go get food after school and do further party planning. Hamlet sort of wants to die, but he also wants fries so he lets her drag him along to Wetherspoons with little resistance.

 

 

This is when it goes horribly, horribly wrong.

 

 

It actually starts out by going incredibly well, considering it starts out with Horatio being hit on by a bartender and of all the things he could say to rebuff the guy's advances, he goes with: "Sorry, I'm uh... taken."

 

 

The three of them restrain themselves painfully until the dude has retreated to wipe some glasses down.

 

 

"WHAT," Ros yells at the same time Guil yells, "WHO," and Hamlet just sputters uselessly in the shape of a word.

 

 

"It was a lie, you idiots," Horatio hisses back, amused. He's red in the face.

 

 

And because Hamlet's friends are well-intentioned idiots (and in part because Horatio is so reserved you rather have to make the most of these moments of openness when they come about) Guil asks accusingly while he looks on in terror, "Well okay, but why? You should've got his number, live a little, my dude."

 

 

"He was hot," Ros agrees.

 

 

Horatio scrunches his nose. "He was old."

 

 

_Wait._

 

 

"He was... he." Hamlet contributes. Horatio and Guil turn in unison to throw twin Looks at him. Ros coughs to hide a grin before continuing her interrogation.

 

 

"Okay, so you're... not taken?"

 

 

"It's, uh, complicated," Horatio obfuscates.

 

 

"It's sort of a closed question," Guil points out. "It can't be that complicated."

 

 

"I'm... my heart... oh god-" he giggles suddenly and Hamlet tries not to swallow his own tongue, "-my heart is taken, you could say."

 

 

"You're such a nerd," Ros whistles, and jostles as someone apparently kicks her under the table.

 

 

Hamlet's tongue reemerges at it's original location and blurts before he can do anything, "You like someone?"

 

 

Across the sticky table, Horatio looks at him. It's... fierce. Steely. Out to prove something?

 

 

"Yeah."

 

 

_Not a homophobe. Just asthmatic._

 

 

_Oh god._

 

 

"Good. I'm glad. Happy for you, dude." 

 

 

"Good."

 

 

His peripheral vision tells him Guilly is inquiring after nature of the conversation's fuck. Ros is zeroed in on the cocktail menu, as she does whenever there's a hint of misplaced celebration in the air. All Hamlet's left with is Horatio's eyes boring into him, making him feel like the room is expanding exponentially around him until he's disappearing among the very atoms, going, going, gone.

 

 

"I gotta go," he manages awkwardly, scraping his chair back manically. "Gotta- bathroom."

 

 

To his shame, he flees.

 

 

-

 

 

_Vrrr._

 

 

His phone vibrates in his pocket as he stares himself down in the grimy mirror next to the urinals.

 

 

_Guess that settles it then_ , he thinks. _There's another woman_.

 

 

His knuckles whiten against the edge of the sink at his automatic stupid joke, fuck him, _fucking_ fuck _me_.

 

 

_Vrrr._

 

 

It whirls around in his head, the shadowy image of some person Horatio likes more than him, wants to spend his time with more than him, finds more everything than him. It's such a classic problem, this pathetic heartbreak. So classic it doesn't really feel like anything at all. This is how it goes. This is how it goes. This is so stupid, and this is how it goes.

 

 

_Vrrr._

 

 

"For fuck's sake," he hisses, shoving his hand into his pocket to shut his phone up; instead, his fingers find paper, and a crackling echoes off the stark tiles as he brings it out.

 

 

It's the damn list. Of course.

 

 

He looks at Step 1 until they stop being words and just swim off the lines.

 

 

_(awk)_

 

 

Yeah. Shit.

 

 

**Thursday**

 

 

He wakes up at 5.42am and stares at the ceiling until way after his bus has been and gone. He goes in for second period claiming nausea, and he's so uncharacteristically quiet the whole lesson that Ms S believes him.

 

 

The gang isn't at their usual table at break, so Hamlet goes to the library to lose himself in the stacks. He hasn't done this for well over a year, but it's still familiar - the stifling quiet, the smell of new plastic dust covers, the weird lighting; there's even the same girl on the computer in the corner as always. Some people have alcoholism, Hamlet has the library.

 

 

He wanders into Historical Non-fiction and starts skimming through time in titles, _An Introduction to Prehistory, Stoneage Survival, Who Were My Ancestors?, A Pretty Big Bang_. That's out of place: he slots it out and shuffles the last few along to re-home it at the start of the shelf.

 

 

Around the metal corner he spies Guil's bloody novelty water bottle shaped like a fire extinguisher lying on the carpet, evidently having rolled out of his bag because he's the clumsiest person he knows. Hamlet leans out a bit further and there's the man himself, and Ros and-

 

 

He doesn't want to be normal, not for a few minutes, so he retreats back into the Iron-age and tries to find anything in human history interesting enough to drown out his mind.

 

 

-

 

 

_"You're being super weird,"_ Ross whispers across her desk in Geog half an hour later. They're meant to be doing a timed essay, so Hamlet gets to experience what it's actually like to be allowed inside this classroom for more than the time it takes to get out his pencil case. He's not much enjoying it.

 

 

_"I know,"_ he whispers back indignantly.

 

 

_"I know you know, but it begged repeating."_

 

 

_"Can you just let me write about ageing populations in my own blood as a metaphor in peace, please?"_

 

 

_"No, I can't let you go through on that admittedly incredible idea._ Why _are you being super weird, Ham?"_

 

 

_"Take a wild guess, bro."_

 

 

_"Well, it isn't exactly the end of the world."_ At Hamlet's scoff she amends, _"Alright, maybe it is a bit, but- look, how do you even know it's not you?"_

 

 

_"Because that's not how things work, Ros! That's not the way of the world! Are you an actual moron?"_

 

 

_"No, you're right, the way things work is people don't just fucking talk to each other and say what they mean and then they only find out everything could've been fine all along right before the movie ends and one of them is dying in the other's arms!"_

 

 

Hamlet looks up to meet her eye. She makes a strangling gesture at him before slumping back to her paper.

 

 

_"Why are you mad at me, man?"_

 

 

_"You're a maddening person."_ He'll take it. Ros sighs after a moment, not looking up. _"You're making your own unhappiness, Hamlet."_

 

 

_"No I'm not."_

 

 

_"You might be."_

 

 

She seems so sure, but Hamlet knows her. She's frustrated, so she wants it to end soon some way of another. And she's a nice person, so she wants to tell him it's all gonna be okay forever. She's the (second) most trustworthy person he knows, and here her opinion is useless.

 

 

She's in too deep. She's Hamlet. No help to him, then.

 

 

-

 

 

He brushes off Guil's invitation to competitively kill Sims with him (+15 points for originality, +5 for speed, +20 for spectacularly long lingering pain) in favour of barricading himself in his room and stalking everyone in his year on Instagram to try and parse who on earth could have stolen Horatio's heart from Hamlet.

 

 

It's a long night.

 

 

(+20 points)

 

 

**Friday**

 

 

At five to ten, Hamlet's hand is shaking as he goes to sloppily pour gross Mexican tequila in three glasses. It's just them, in Hamlet's kitchen, standing around the breakfast counter, but won't be for much longer. Guil is wearing a tiny plastic sombrero that came off the top of the gross tequila, just for that added dash of racism. It's his stepdad's, so he doesn't feel bad about drinking it but that doesn't mean he has to enjoy it.

 

 

"I think I'm having a panic attack," he raises his glass in toast and swallows the shot before the other two have a chance to pick theirs up.

 

 

"Are you feeling okay, bud?" Guil asks. "Okay, stupid question. Um. Why are you having a panic attack?"

 

 

Hamlet tries to answer honestly. They're all several pre-drinks deep so it's hard. "My panic... is... attacking me. All over all at once."

 

 

"Sounds like a panic attack to me," Ros nods sagely.

 

 

"Maybe we should call tonight off?" says Guil.

 

 

"No!" Hamlet yells; his friends jump, startled. "No, no. I need to- self destruct. I can feel it- all happening."

 

 

"It?"

 

 

"His sticky end," Ros clarifies for Guilly. She passes him the bottle. "Gotta say, Dane, I disapprove of your methods but admire your dedication to... uh-"

 

 

"Getting some?" Guil suggests.

 

 

"Dying," Hamlet says, mournfully.

 

 

"-Getting shit over with, I was gonna say!"

 

 

"S'not dedication," Hamlet corrects her. He raises his second shot to the centre of their huddle and waits this time for the others to fumble with theirs. Clink. "S'abject terror."

 

 

-

 

 

"So not only does he like someone else but he thinks I hate gays! _Me!_ "

 

 

Kat laughs hysterically into his shoulder, getting beer in her hair in the process which just makes Hamlet break out laughing too, bumping his head on the mug cupboard above his head: his whirling brain suggests the term mugboard.

 

 

"You," she wheezes. "Ham, baby, my sweet sliced meat product, you - a homophone? ...Phobe. Buh."

 

 

"I really fucked up, Kat," he says. She pulls back from his shoulder, her giggles waning, taking in his sudden sobriety.

 

 

"Tell me, gay to gay. Bare bones it for me."

 

 

"I'm... I'm so..." He remembers Ros' words from the other day. "...emotionally stunted that I- I tried to show him a movie to float the idea of me and gayness, and it didn't work and he thinks I'm a knob, and then he floated the idea of him and gayness right back at me in a Spoons a couple of days later, and it's like this dumb duel where he somehow thinks I'm being awkward about everything because I have a problem with him liking a guy, and I mean I _do_ but not in the way he thinks-"

 

 

"Hamlet, _Hamlet_ , fucking hell, slow down!"

 

 

He feels his face crumple, and rubs the heel of his palm against his temple fiercely in retaliation to himself. "Better to be cup runneth over with anxiety than not runneth at all."

 

 

Kat blinks down at him. "I'm sure you thought that was profound, but I don't quite catch your drift."

 

 

"Better mad than sad."

 

 

"Ah. You know I wish you'd just speak like a normal person, Hamlet, you'd save us all a lot of time."

 

 

He punches her in the arm feebly. She wraps it around him.

 

 

"Look," she says softly, or as softly as can be when _Wallpaper._ is reverberating around the house and making the ornaments jump. "Think of it this way: it's all been decided for you, really. It's an opportunity! You have to clear your name by telling him the real reason you've been such a, how you say... a hot fuckening mess."

 

 

"Do I really?" he starts to crumple again.

 

 

"Ham," Kat says, taking his face in her hands, and in a moment they're six years old again, sitting in the gap in the hedge between their gardens. Hamlet's eyes are still wet, and this is the last moment of his old life, the life that ended the moment he says out loud what his mother had just told him about his dad.

 

 

"Everything's changing all the time," she says in both her past and present voices. "There's no point in things that aren't bloody: they don't change anything."

 

 

He stares up into her clear eyes, struck for a second by the realisation that she's gonna change the world, this girl with twigs in her hair who'd brought a plate of flapjack out with her from the house and let him have half even though it was her favourite food. _We should talk more_ , he thinks.

 

 

"Drunk deep," he murmurs, and she grins at his reply and crushes his spine in a hug.

 

 

"You'll do okay, man," she tells him. "And if it starts going tits up just dissociate - works wonders on ya fear of consequences."

 

 

Hamlet rolls his eyes and lets her push him over towards the door.

 

 

The hall is packed - he squeezes past Patty on her way to take his place, holding two beers; Guilly is sitting on his mum's phone table telling a gesture heavy story (Hamlet disapproves of the concept of phone tables entirely so he lets this slide) to some guys from Maths B; Laertes is being rejected by a brunette in the living room doorway, so Hamlet gets the delightful chance to pat him on the back with a "Hey, boner" as he goes through. It's a little quieter in here - people wise at least, the stereo is on the TV stand in the corner so it's technically much louder - and Hamlet sees Horatio immediately. 

 

 

Before he can chicken out and move to Copenhagen to become an installation artist living in an attic, he walks up to him. Halfway across the room, way past returning point, he realises Horatio is actually with someone, and this someone could very well be the Other Woman.

 

 

"Hey, bro!" he practically shouts in greeting. Horatio looks understandably terrified and breaks off from whatever unfathomably interesting conversation he was having. Powered by adrenaline, fear, embarrassment and a healthy pinch of Kat's suggested dissociation, he plops down between Horatio and the armrest.

 

 

"Sorry to, uh- I need to tell you something-"

 

 

"Are you okay?" Horatio interrupts in concern, also shouting to be heard. He turns towards Hamlet and appraises the situation in his nursery manner: forehead, chest, hands, feet. It's like old times (last week) and Hamlet wants to cry suddenly but he won't cry because _mad not sad, mad not sad_.

 

 

He can work with the alternative meaning of madness here, if all else fails, which it is doing.

 

 

"Never," he dismisses. "Horatio, look. You may have noticed I've been having a bit of a..."

 

 

"Breakdown? Yeah, I noticed." Hamlet swallows. Here comes the sigh. "I don't get why you won't just talk to me though. I'm here for you, I'd hoped you knew that."

 

 

_Well, that wasn't in the script._

 

 

"You...?"

 

 

"You can talk to me about anything, Hamlet."

 

 

"Not about this."

 

 

Ah, there we go: the cold eyes are back. It's a painful rush of relief, to be honest, to be back on horrible horrible familiar ground. The song finishes abruptly and some acoustic-y remix fills the air instead, equally shit but at least they don't have to keep yelling.

 

 

"Look, I don't know what's gotten into you, but-"

 

 

"I'll tell you for why, sir!" he exclaims, not really understanding why he's turned into an Arthurian knight but deciding to save his examination of that for a therapist. Anything that helps him get this out. 

 

 

Horatio looks at him in bewilderment. His conversation partner slash true love peers over his shoulder off-puttingly.

 

 

Hamlet swallows. "Alright. So. Thing is, buddy, pal, homeslice-"

 

 

"Shut up, Ham."

 

 

"Gotcha. Thing is, Horatio, I sort of- had an epiphany during last week's Masterchef. Which you're right, I didn't invite you to come watch, for reasons that will become apparent in about twelve seconds. It was during the crust montage. Not that that's particularly important, but I remember it was then. The voice-over was rambling on about the versatility of the pie, how you could have it for every part of a meal, and he made a shit joke about how you maybe shouldn't have an entirely-pie first date. And, uh-"

 

 

"Hamlet-"

 

 

"It's you. Horatio, it's you. All the weird crap I've done this week is because I've been trying to- I had this stupid plan, like an actual physical plan, a list, of how to like, win you over. And it was complete wank anyway, I'm not cut out for romance it seems. But yeah, that's um. The deal. The dealio. The thing."

 

 

"Ham, shut up," Horatio says. His face is... weird. No, well, his face is great, but it's expression right now is weird. Figures. It's a Lot.

 

 

Hamlet goes to sit on his hands to stop him fidgeting and his pocket crinkles. " _Are you kidding me_ ," he mutters, and produces the fucking list from his pocket. Had he just not taken it out this whole time? He knew he wore the same trousers until it was absolutely dire, but this was going too far.

 

 

He shoves it into Horatio's hands, who smooths out the corners and turns it over, eyes turning wide as they flit over the page. "Look, this was it, the plan. It's... I don't know what I was thinking, it's kind of really creepy."

 

 

"That it is," Horatio agrees drily, and Hamlet's world bursts into flames and he's off, riding his unicorn into the pit of unreality and despair, just like Dr. Kat ordered. God, she gave great advice. "You do realise not a single one of these would have worked?"

 

 

 

"Well, having tried them now, yes, I do realise."

 

 

Horatio looks up at him, and his old eyes are back. He smiles, small, the movement sort of shaky. "No, I mean. You'd already done it. I'm already... already..."

 

 

The unicorn swerves back, lands on the ground with a bone-shattering jolt. "Already?"

 

 

He seems at a loss for the right words. Hamlet sees the exact moment he gives up, and then all he sees are his eyes, right there, closer than he's ever seen them, but it's not new. It's the oldest thing in the universe when Horatio kisses him. His hand comes up to Hamlet's cheek, his fingers hot on his skin except for a shock of cool at the palm-edge where he'd evidently been nursing a drink. Hamlet notices this because in that moment nothing else is there to notice; the gentle pressure is the only thing holding him here. All he can do is sit and let the world wash over him, which can't be coming across as very enthusiastic as Horatio pulls back after that long first moment.

 

 

" _Nope,_ " Hamlet says into his lips, and chases them down, his hand coming up to Horatio's shirt to tug him closer. Horatio sighs into him in relief, and that floors Hamlet, this realisation that he's not completely alone in it. Horatio's the only other real person in the world. And Hamlet's real to him.

 

 

"Jesus," he says, muffled by not being able to lean away to say it. Horatio laughs at the sensation, which makes Hamlet laugh, and they have to break apart, Horatio's face buried in Hamlet's neck.

 

 

"Yeah, Jesus," Horatio says.

 

 

They look at each other, openly, exposed. They're surrounded by people and the music is shit and the room smells of Desperados but it's the most intimate moment Hamlet's experienced in his life.

 

 

He reckons they'll have plenty of opportunities to break this record of most-intimate though, in nicer settings. They've been looking at each other ever since they met, but not really, and they'll be looking at other as much of the time as Horatio will let him in future, but really this time.

 

 

"This should be scary," Hamlet says aloud.

 

 

Horatio makes an eek face, then smiles. "I know."

**Author's Note:**

> subplot: kat and pat are lesbians and in love and theyre up next in the chain of 'gay shakespeare otps encounter the protag at a party to support the protag's gay ways'
> 
> thanks for reading ily!


End file.
